The Prophecy
by Nerikla
Summary: With this chapter dawns a new era, one of fear and treachery. Only days after Voldemort is defeated, an unlikely figure steps into his place. This is the dark, bitter story of how Ron Weasley must come to terms with the hand fate has dealt him.
1. The Beginning

Prophecy  
  
  
  
  
  
Once the Three who never died  
  
Stood up to meet their fate  
  
In the forest of Evergreen  
  
Though it was too late  
  
Fought valiantly and terribly  
  
With a hero's breath  
  
It took many wounds for them  
  
To meet their hero's death.  
  
Unlucky one, left behind  
  
With no place left to crawl  
  
Deserted by all once loved  
  
Nowhere but down to fall.  
  
The Lord of Darkness gone  
  
Defeated by his past  
  
The one who remains  
  
Will raise more terror than the last.  
  
~~~~~~~  
  
Hermione lay on her back, staring peacefully at the blackened sky above her. Distant thunderclouds shook the humid air, so thick it was difficult to breathe. One hand was curled on her stomach, the other lying deadened at her side. It was odd, she thought, how this rain was so painful: sharp pricks, like pins, poking at her skin and making it tender.  
  
She was vaguely aware that someone was beside her, speaking. Slowly, she turned her head, though it was difficult. It felt as though cotton had been forcibly shoved in her mouth.  
  
Her eyes, though half-lidded, took in a tall figure with dark, bloody hair. Or was it just red? She squinted, trying to see, but the color was so peculiar. He was mouthing something, and for a moment she tried to read his lips. Why..please..she couldn't make out the other words. It was too difficult, and she was too tired. Her facial muscles hurt, and the pounding in her head was quite distracting. She tried to speak, but the cotton in her mouth stopped her from producing any sound other than a pained groan. She couldn't hear the sound that she made, but evidently the man did.  
  
If she had opened her eyes, she would have seen him lean down to look at her. She was vaguely aware of the fact that he had taken one of her limp hands in his, but she was so tired.she was finished with fighting. She wanted to drift into that peaceful blackness that only sleep could offer. The throbbing in her head suddenly turned into a dull roar, and she whimpered in the back of her throat.  
  
The roar was a yell, screaming a long, wordless cry that made her want to cover her hands with her ears. Though a moment before she hadn't been moving, now she was kicking and writhing. It hurt so much to move, but she had to.anything to escape the cries! Anything!  
  
Hermione!  
  
Hermione, I've just been told that they're coming now. I'll stay, but you need to go. Please, it's better this way, Harry will be here soon, and I'm to wait. We can't lose you, Hermione! We can risk my life, but you're invaluable.  
  
There were more cries, not just this voice. It was pleasant, but the words were yelled at her and whipped away by a screaming wind. Now there were hoarse shouts, screams, footsteps. The man's voice grew more urgent.  
  
Hermione, this isn't a game anymore! You told me so, you told Harry that we have to be strong! Run, flee, get us more help! Only Harry can face him, that's what the Prophecy said. Go! Now!  
  
Footsteps thundered into her mind, and a new voice spoke as well.  
  
I'm here! Go, both of you. He's coming, he's coming and you need to leave. I'll never forgive myself if either of you are hurt. Please!  
  
Desperation, then she knew she was being dragged away. But the wrong way! No, they were leaving, but why the laughter? They had fallen into a trap, and now she was surrounded, and they were laughing at her. They were laughing.  
  
She opened her eyes with a start, clutching the tall man who was now kneeling beside her. He was crying, she saw, brown eyes black with sorrow. He was hugging her, blood smeared all over his robes. Ron! It was Ron, he was safe, he was fine! She tried to speak, but it felt as though claws were tearing at her throat.  
  
The screaming in her head had stopped, and she knew that it had been someone else, someone close. Now she was alone with her friend, beneath this black sky, and she forced herself to concentrate on what Ron was urgently saying. It was something important, she knew, and painfully pulled herself up to jam her ear against his mouth. He was startled for a moment, but realized that he would just have to speak in this position in order for her to hear. With a peculiar detachment Hermione realized that the blood on Ron's robes was her own. She was crying as well, from the pain, the sadness, the realization that she remembered nothing.  
  
"Oh, God, Hermione, don't leave me, please. Why didn't you come when we told you to? Now, oh, God, Harry! Harry's dead, Hermione, he was killed the same moment You-Kno- Voldemort was defeated. We won, Hermione, but it wasn't worth it. He's dead, our Harry, he's gone, and you can't leave me, please. Please, be okay, help is coming, we'll get you help, but you have to hold on. Hold on!" Ron's voice was an endless wail, and he was crying so hard that she could feel his body convulse as each sob wracked his thin frame. She tried to hug him, but the best she could do was apply a feeble amount of pressure that made him cry harder.  
  
We won.  
  
She allowed herself to rejoice momentarily over this, a sad little smile curving her lips, bloody though they were. It took her a moment to realize what Ron was saying, and the smile fell off of her face the same way a drop of rain falls off of a rose petal.  
  
Harry's gone. Harry's dead. Oh, Ron, I'm so sorry. You loved him just as much as I did. Harry was a hero, but so are you, so are you!  
  
As she turned her head with the last amount of strength she possessed, he supported her. She kissed him softly, a mere wisp of her former self in his arms. Her brown eyes, that once contained such warmth, were already closed, the hevay lashes dark against her pale cheeks. Ron cried quietly, clutching her to him, blood on his lips, his face, his body. He heard a sound like rustling leaves and looked up to see a group of Aurors rushing towards him, but it was too late. With a vision blurred by tears, he watched her fight to speak.  
  
"My hero." She whispered dryly, then shut her eyes, expecting to see black. But there was Harry! Briefly, she tried to return to Ron, but found that she couldn't. She was with Harry now, and his parents, and Neville, and the Weasleys, and all those who had died in the valiant fight to overthrow the Lord of Darkness, Voldemort.  
  
Ron wept as the Aurors pried Hermione's body away from his, and he fell in a sobbing heap on the ground. Someone was talking to him, soothingly, but he heard no words. All he knew was that his best friends were dead, and he was alone. He had been called a hero, but what was a hero without his friends? He would never be able to go on living without them, never. Everyone he had ever cared about was dead. His parents, his siblings, even his owl, gone. But this, this was the worst blow of them all.  
  
He beat the ground with one fist even as he was examined for injuries. "Let me go! LET ME GO!" He demanded, his voice an incessant shriek. He was crying so hard he was blinded, and could taste the blood lingering in his mouth.  
  
"Harry! Hermione!" He called, though he saw nothing but his tears, "I'm coming with you! Don't leave me here. Don't leave me! I want to be with you, anywhere but here. I can't be alone! Not again, not after they all died, too, I'm the only one left. Don't leave me, don't leave me!"  
  
Laughter, somewhere in that back of his mind. Bring them back, it whispered, you have the power to do so. You can accomplish great things, Ronald, great things. The Prophecy told many truths, and now you must fulfill it. You have no choice but to do so, and begin your Reign of Terror. They are watching you, Ronald. They are your friends now. They will never leave you. Let them fill your mind with sweet words, empty, but sweet. You are no longer alone, Ronald. No one will leave you now. 


	2. Fate's Clutches

I have been here before.  
  
It was not quite so dark, nor so cold, but I do recall the gritty snow softening each object that it covered. It used to be so clean, but now.now I hardly know what to think. Have I visited this place in a dream since that day? Beauty means so little to me now, but with the memory of this place comes something that I have almost forgotten. Comradeship, fighting for something that I believed in. This place is so tranquil now, so peaceful.  
  
Peaceful. What an odd word to think.  
  
Ron Weasley sat on a large, oddly shaped rock that was sprinkled with a thick layer of snow. His black robes contrasted sharply, making the shadows under his eyes appear darker and the haunted expression he wore seem natural. Even his curly red hair was a deeper color, like that of dried blood.  
  
This was one of the blessed moments that he could be alone. He had been working hard, straining against the strict bonds that he had been taught at Hogwarts. Don't practice black magic, they had told him. Don't attempt anything that could badly damage another living creature. Don't trust something if you can't see where its brain is.  
  
No, his teachers had not told him that. It had been someone else.someone else.  
  
He would bring his father back, he had sworn to himself. He had been fighting the very same day the rest of his family had been murdered. They had done it to themselves, he knew, but that did not stop the regret he felt at such an occurrence. Had they known, had they suspected? He knew what it was like to expect death, to even want to die.  
  
Oh, how he knew.  
  
These woods brought back distant memories, things that seemed a dream. He had been fed so many tales; so many lies since that night- at times it could be hard to discern them from reality. Lord Ronald, they called him, and yet those very words were enough to make him grimace. How he hated that name, the cruel creature that he had become. Still, he had no other choice.  
  
Fate cares not for the lives that it destroys.  
  
I promised to bring them back. Despicable though I am, all know that Lord Ronald keeps his word, he told himself quietly. His eyes, so dark now, watched as he brushed a gloved finger against the stone. He left a trail through the snow, watching as it melted on the leather and slowly pooled into the palm of his hand. He wore short black gloves that ended at his wrists, which had magical protection tailored into their very essence. They had been a gift, one of the countless, meaningless baubles given to him by the traitorous followers of Voldemort. Ron was their God now, their Savior.  
  
Their Traitor, and the fools did not even know it.  
  
He had helped to kill Voldemort, true- but the Prophecy had promised that he would raise more hell than any before. He had started his reign with the attempted creation of something so terrible, so despicable, that few dared to murmur his name, fearing that he would swoop down upon them like some great creature of the night and wreak his legendary vengeance upon them.  
  
Hypocrites, he told himself, yet knew he was the biggest of them all.  
  
Ron hated himself, more than any of his enemies. He had not come to face Albus Dumbledore yet, but he feared the man. He was disgusted by the fact that the memory of his schoolboy's emotions still swayed him to feel awe whenever he heard the name, and so had ordered that none speak it in his presence. Taking the command as some sort of ceremonial necessity, the clods that followed him accepted this. Oh, how he loathed them; loathed the way they fawned over him, the way the simpered, the gifts they gave.  
  
He remembered that as a boy, he had been jealous of the attention his schoolmates had given his best friend. Harry Potter had been famous, a celebrity, and he still could recall the feeling in his gut each time he heard others whisper wonders about his friend to each other. If only he had known how little Harry had appreciated it, and what an annoyance it must have been.  
  
"I know now, Harry," He whispered to himself, unfurling himself from his seated position and hopping off the rock. He brushed off his dark capes, noted that fresh snow had fastened itself to his boots. He ignored it, instead stomping away from the rock. There were pine needles beneath the snow, so that each step brought an odd crunching noise, like the ghostly noise of snapping necks.  
  
When he finally reached his destination, he collapsed to his knees. It was silent here, completely and utterly. There were no birds in the trees, no wind to stir the branches of the tall, thick pine trees that surrounded him. No snow dropped from one branch to the next: here was perfection, here was bitter serenity. This was where Voldemort's rule had reached its culmination, and Lord Ronald's own death spiral began.  
  
He had toppled over, so that his legs were tucked beneath him, yet his face was pressed against the snow. It was cold here, and his cheeks stung; yet he could not pull himself away. Here was where his friends had deserted him, where they had taken the simple path of death and left him behind to be cursed and hated in the households where he had always been loved.  
  
Sometimes he longed to die, to end the cruel pattern that his life had fallen in to. Today he had managed to escape their lies, their whispers, their praises, insisting that he was going on a Muggle killing spree. He had told them that he needed to go- alone. After embellishing this with some mystical shit about fate's calling, they had lapped up his lies like the dogs that they were. They had watched him leave with tears on their cheeks and joy in their eyes.  
  
How he hated them.  
  
They were overjoyed when speaking of death, laughed when they talked of how many they had killed over the course of the week. Life was nothing to them, and he knew it would be even less in their eyes once he finally managed to fulfill his promise.  
  
He would snatch his two best friends from the dead and bring them back to the land of the living.  
  
Ron was dangerously close to accomplishing this goal. Every day brought him a step closer. As he parted his lips to breathe in, he felt the cold snow against his teeth and tasted its emptiness. It, too, knew the futility of attempting to exist when all was pitched against it. There was little of his former self within him; though on the outside he still looked like a grim Ronald Weasley, his mind had been corrupted. Others had tried to mould him, to convince him, to introduce him to their ways, but he clung onto the last scraps of himself as though they were the only things with the ability to keep him sane.  
  
"If I can just bring them back." The words were dark, and he hated the hopelessness that he heard beneath them. Angrily he yanked himself away from the snow, back into his kneeling position. He took up a fistful of the snow, feeling the cold bite through his gloves.  
  
"I hate you! I hate you!" He cried, not knowing who he addressed, slamming his hand against the ground. He released the snow, then stood sharply and hit a tree as hard as he could, punctuating each loathing shriek with a punch. Soon snow was raining down on him, but he didn't care. He was screaming the words, wailing them, unconscious of all that surrounded him. Nothing mattered anymore; nothing penetrated the black pit that he had plunged himself into. Soon he was blasting things left and right with his wand, seeing nothing but a hateful red. He killed trees that had stood tall and mighty for hundreds of years with a single word, scowling and gnashing his teeth like some sort of madman. There had been several stumps remaining from a previous battle, but soon those were destroyed, leaving black scorch marks across the pine needles that peeked through the snow. Soon he Apparated, off on some insane killing spree.  
  
This was the Lord Ronald that his followers both feared and loved. Later he would sob quietly to himself where no one could see, mourning those he had killed. There would be blood on his hands, his face, his entire body, and he would feel no joy once the task was accomplished. With each death he grew stronger, another step closer to bringing his friends back to life. Still, he knew that he stood on the edge of a black abyss, hating himself and his followers, Harry and Hermoine, every creature dead or alive that had ever walked the face of the earth.  
  
They did not know that their Lord longed to throw himself in the bottomless pit of despair. It was Fate, however, that he hated most of all, and Fate that kept him from taking the one thing that he wanted.  
  
His life. 


End file.
